


the king's right hand

by kalypsobean



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:07:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis is ill and Narcisse takes it on himself to make arrangements should things not improve. (Set roughly during 2x17-2x18)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the king's right hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FightingForms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FightingForms/gifts).



> Based out of FightingForms wanting to see Narcisse being gentle with Francis. His gentle is about the same as someone else's sneakily applied sledgehammer, and he cannot stop manipulating and manouevring, so, this is what came out. I hope it's what you wanted!

Stephane Narcisse has never been one for prophecies. He ignores the hushed whispers as he strides past the guards and servants. Even now, publically devoid of holdings, Stephane Narcisse is not a man to be denied. He enters the King's chambers and the healers scatter. He waits for the sound of footsteps to fade before speaking. 

"We must make arrangements," he says, pouring a glass of wine as he speaks.

"For what?" Francis says. His voice is strong, almost as if he wasn't sick at all, as if the translucent whiteness of his skin was an illusion and the sweat was due to exertion, the blood not his own. But the words waver, and his breathing is laboured.

"Why, in case of your demise, of course," he replies.

Instead of resistance, Francis nods. "I suppose you are right," he says. "At least for Lola, and my son."

"I have that taken care of," he says, and Francis visibly relaxes. He doesn't know, because Stephane is quite good at compartmentalising, that those plans involve Lola and the boy being removed from the palace and kept, in secret, under his care. He doubts, though, that if Francis, ever the sleuth, worked it out, he would disagree. Lola might, because she's always been difficult, but in such a tragic, emotional circumstance, he's sure of being able to sway her; she has the boy to look out for and he can offer protection, she'd use him as a way out and build a life from there. 

Such a shame, though, that it takes passing so close to the door of death for Francis to treat him as an ally, an asset of value to be trusted; but with Catherine invested in Charles and Mary occupied with Scotland and under the thumb of Condé, Stephane Narcisse is well-placed to take care of the King's interests, especially insofar as they align with his own. The rest; well, trust has a price.

 

"There is the matter, too, of your wife. She intends to return to Scotland, sooner rather than later, and has already schemed to send an army ahead of her."

"Then she will go, and no longer be an obstacle to you." Francis pales even more; there is not much time left, he realises, for Francis is tired still. He is still far from well, which is why they are having this little talk. Although, being called to the deathbed of the King of France, to receive his last orders had sounded rather poetic, he would be rather disappointed if it were true.

"You should make provisions for my brother's safety, too. We cannot withstand a Bourbon challenge, not now."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I shall write the orders myself."

"I will sign them," Francis says. "I should hope they are not needed."

"That is my dearest wish as well," he says. Leaving the glass untouched at the side of the bed, he bows and walks out of the room. 

 

~*~

 

"It's a contingency, Catherine, nothing more," he says. He refrains from telling her she should be grateful; that he's the one tending to her son's affairs while she puts on an appearance of being the worried mother as she manoeuvres for the regency. Her eyes narrow and her head tilts.

"I know you're not doing this out of the goodness of your heart," she says. "I will find out what you are up to with this, and if you hurt my son..."

"I have no intention of doing harm," he says, but she's already lifted her skirts and glided away. Undoubtedly, that means she has paid a guard to stay close enough to listen and report back to her, or one of her spies is hidden in the room. It is no matter; he decides, for the orders are innocent enough, and the money put aside to implement them, should the worst happen, is traceable to Francis.

His personal holdings, the ones he did not surrender, that are held in the names of dead spouses and kept by trusted, well-recompensed servants, are untouched.

 

~*~

 

Francis is asleep when he enters; there's a healer, packing bottles and boxes into a bag, and he leaves after a sharp glare. With Catherine about, Stephane deems it better to wait for Francis to wake, rather than leave the order behind and risk it being stolen or altered, or return and find Francis' condition altered. They say he will recover, given time, and there were meaningful looks between the bastard and Catherine, but Stephane won't trust in the healers until Francis is out of bed, dressed, and treating him with the usual distaste. Francis has the makings of a worthy adversary, able to be taught the craft of manipulation and yet, still an easy target; France's future would be very different if he were lost.

This is not what he is concerned with when he sits on the bed, close enough to Francis to cover his hand with his own and yet far enough away to not arouse suspicion if Francis wakes. There would be very little he could do from this distance, after all; and a waking Francis would obviously not have been strangled, or poisoned, or smothered. This, though, is a moment he steals for himself, to indulge in one of the rarer pleasures to which he aspires; he can imagine, for this time out of time, that Francis will wake and smile at him, twist his hand to grip it loosely as he leans in for a tender kiss. He can imagine that his efforts, his concern, is taken as more than an attempt to gain favour and preserve his life, that it is appreciated and the nascent feelings of respect and adoration are returned. For these few moments, the secret meetings where Francis presses him for information are trysts, carefully hidden from Catholics who would not understands and nobles who would hurl accusations; they do not live in a world filled with secrets kept from each other and every action is not followed by a complicated round of subtle questioning to test intentions and truth.

 

Francis wakes, and Stephane pulls his hand away.

"You did not have to wait, you know," Francis says. "I would have had the order returned to you, or kept safely."

"But how would you know you could trust your guards? Right now, Francis, your reign is fragile; anyone who wanted power could have you killed without suspicion. Even your mother, bless her scheming heart, has designs on the regency if your brother inherits." He lets the rest remain unsaid, knowing that Francis' imagination would do more than his words; Francis is a realist, but prone to seeing the worst of consequences and avoiding them without seeing the more insidious shades of danger that shift only slightly, but reach much further. 

"And you only have my best interests at heart? Forgive me if I have trouble believing that." Francis shifts himself to sit up straighter, but Stephane can see it pains him; after only days in bed, his body is weak. It does not bode well, and he files it away for the future.

"I stand to lose much more than my head if Catherine gets her hands on your crown," he says, honestly. "And I would miss our little talks."

"Would you now," Francis says. Stephane takes the parchment from its hiding place inside his tunic and unrolls the parchment, holds it still on the bed while Francis, his hands shaking, drags the quill along the bottom. 

"I find I have come to enjoy them," he says, as he scatters powder across the ink. Let Francis think what he will; if he survives, and remains strong, perhaps there will be another chance to position himself closer to Francis, act as a true confidante. In time, of course. Such matters cannot be rushed. "In the meantime, you can now be assured of your son's safety should things not go your way." He rises, tucking the parchment away.

"Speaking of such things, I want to ask you something," Francis says, "before you go." 

"And what service may I offer you now?" he says, bowing slightly. 

"Scotland. I know your spies reach that far." Francis is well-informed for being bedridden, but Stephane is always prepared.

"Elizabeth has been sending her men to find an alliance in France," he says, instead of addressing the issue outright. There is power in subtlety, he knows this well. "Should her army be able to rely on Scotland for supplies, you would find France very vulnerable indeed."

"I see," Francis says. "That will be all, for now."

Stephane bows, more formally, and makes his way to the door, another step closer to the King's side.


End file.
